No One Knows Everything
by Butler414
Summary: My epilogue for the ME3 Destroy ending. Canon, but only canon enough to not directly contradict what happens in-game. I hope my ideas of the post-Reaper universe make sense to you. Paragon Shepard, Earthborn War Hero, LI Tali
1. No More Dead Heroes

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to my first fan-fic! A few years ago, if you asked me what Mass Effect was, I wouldn't have been able to tell you anything. Now, here I am, fleshing out that massive universe even further. I hope you enjoy this first chapter, and please, comment, praise, criticize, suggest, I'm open to all of it.

In case you didn't see the description, I'm going to try to stay within the boundaries of the Bioware endings, but I've got a few ideas in the works which will do a hell of a lot more than "clarify" (I mean, seriously, just how much more artificial can Bioware's excuses get?) the Shepard trilogy.

* * *

An explosion of red daggers, then a welcoming cloud of darkness. "How many times has it been now?" mused Commander Trent Shepard. A Batarian carnage blast from the Skyllian Blitz…the Prothean beacon on Eden Prime…the destruction of the SR1…yes, the whole 'see red then black out' thing was becoming a trend for the hero of humanity. But then again, maybe it wasn't, because as the darkness began to encroach on his thoughts, Shepard couldn't help but wonder if this was the end of the line.

No, Shepard didn't wonder because he was religious, or because he subscribed to the "law of statistics" like some jumpy marines did. No god or deity decided when his day would come; there was no bullet with his name on it. He had been in the service too long to be taken in by those myths. Instead, whenever he had questions about the nature of reality, he approached it scientifically. _The outcome of any event is determined by a huge number of variables. _Shepard had gotten good at controlling variables. Any victory on the battlefield he attributed to fastidious weapon maintenance, strategic team selection, and creative tactics. Any victory in diplomacy he attributed to information gathering and the employment of ethos, pathos, and logos, either separately or in conjunction with one another. Apparently, the Illusive Man had thought so highly of Shepard's ability to influence events that he had risked over four billion credits in the hopes that Shepard would change a "suicide mission" into a victory for humanity. He had not been disappointed.

Despite his successes, Shepard never allowed himself to become arrogant. There was only so much he could control; for instance, he couldn't stop blood from leaving his wounds, and he couldn't repair the extreme trauma to the front of his body. No human mind, or artificial one, could predict or create the future of the universe. There were simply too many variables.

The Catalyst had finally recognized this, which was why it had decided that a new "solution" was needed. As for why it had let him choose the Crucible's function, Shepard still didn't know. He had wanted time to weigh his options, but off in the distance, he could see Reapers massacring the allied fleets wholesale.

He had closed his eyes and forced his gaze inward.

Synthesis: out of the question. The decision to become a synthetic-organic hybrid must be left to the individual. Also, making everyone's DNA the same isn't going to magically make problems and conflict go away. After enough time, organic life will rise again, and what's to stop people from making new synthetics? And when has similar DNA ever stopped a criminal, or reconciled differences in…religion, for example? So…

Control: definitely _seemed_ like the best choice. Any aversion Shepard had had to the Illusive Man's plan was a result of knowing the Illusive Man's character, not moral qualms over holding the reins of power. Besides, if Shepard controlled the Reapers, he could fly them into stars, or into black holes, or force them drop their barriers and fight each other to the death. He had given his life in service once before; he was willing to do it again if it brought an end to the cycle.

But, before he could force his battered legs to move, he took one last look at the Catalyst. It had once been an organic, and so had Harbinger, and the rest of the Reaper fleet. Did the Catalyst have a family? Was Sovereign royalty, a slave, or somewhere in between? Might the Reaper on Tuchanka have been a scientist on par with Mordin? It didn't matter though; they were the Reapers, and from the largest dreadnoughts down to the lowliest husks, their sole collective purpose was to cull the "chaos" of organics.

Shepard's mind had been honed through combat, structured through reflection, tempered by loss, and sustained by the hope that all his work would help the galaxy be a better place for everyone. But would it be enough to control the Reapers? If his mind were separated from his body, and if it was converted into an AI, would he be able to think the same way? Or would his new outlook lead him to the same conclusion the Catalyst had reached?

No, trying to take control was too risky. The Reapers were too powerful to be put in the hands of one flawed human being.

Destroy: this was the final solution, the absolute end of the extinction cycle, but it had a cost. The destruction of all synthetics. The Geth. EDI. Both of them, hated and feared by the "civilized community", yet willing to risk survival for the sake of a future without the Reapers – a future not just for them, but for Shepard, and for everyone Shepard fought for. Both of them, so recently beginning to appreciate the beauty of true sentience, the thrill of emotion. They had pledged themselves to Shepard's cause, "to the death" EDI had stated, but Shepard had never wanted them to have to make good that promise.

Also, if all synthetics were destroyed, and the future gave rise to new synthetics, would the lessons of the past few years be remembered, or would the Catalyst's macabre predictions come true? There was no way to tell.

…

_Ah…there's the answer._ There was no way to tell. The peace with the Geth might be temporary, but so was any other kind of peace. Sometimes things work out, sometimes they don't; either way, everyone moves forward. However, the existence of the Reapers denies everyone that hope: the hope that we can change the future. Against all odds, Shepard had rallied the entire galaxy, and as long as the Reapers were destroyed today, others could and would arise to bear the torch.

To bear hope.

Now, after the explosion and the retreat from his senses, Shepard wondered if this was the end of the line, but he already knew the answer. Shepard had breached the Catalyst's realm of possibility once by activating the Crucible; he could do it again.

He wanted to live.

He wanted to breath.

*Haa*

_Oh God, the pain…_

_ Don't stop now!_

*Haa*

*Haa*

He calmed his mind as adrenaline surged through his system, working to assess his injuries and avoid further damage. He could feel several broken ribs shifting with every breath, and as he gave his limbs experimental twitches, only his right arm responded properly. The rest he guessed…severe breaks, muscle tears, skin burns? Oh, and the large abdominal wound from Harbinger's beam. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but it needed to be closed. He needed proper medical attention.

Where was he?

He forced his eyelids open, the charred films of skin protesting with a dozen new fractures, and waited for the dark blur to begin resolving into shapes. Ten seconds passed. Then another, and another, and still all Shepard could see was a dark blur. He began to wonder if the explosion had blinded him, but he pushed that thought aside and refocused on how to get medical treatment. Even if he could see where he was, he wouldn't be able to move.

He slid his right arm gingerly under his back, scraping his knuckles on what felt like concrete, and pawed at the various utility pouches on the back of his Hahne-Kedar torso-piece until he found what he was looking for: a compact but powerful beacon. He had planned to use it to signal in reinforcements to the Citadel wherever the beam took him, but then Harbinger happened, and - _shit; If Coates is still alive, I should have him court-martialed once I'm out of here _- all other forces had begun beating a hasty retreat.

Now, though, someone should come to investigate. Shepard was fairly certain that the Crucible had fulfilled its function, because if the Catalyst had been lying about its intentions, it would have simply killed him after Shepard fulfilled his role, whatever _that_ would be. However, he was worried; in retrospect, he should have asked the Catalyst how the Crucible would destroy the Reapers, and whether it would affect organics or starships. _Also, what state are the fleets in? How bad are the losses? The Normandy; did Joker and EDI carry out my orders? Oh, God, I hope not, Tali would – _

_Stop. Stop, getting anxious will only make my injuries worse. The best thing I can do for them now is signal my location – where's the button, ah, here we go – and get treatment. Once I'm recovered, then I can…I can… oh, right! I owe Tali a house on Rannoch… and Garrus a few beers…maybe I can challenge him to a rematch on that spot on the Presidium…oh, but its gone…doesn't matter, we're finally fucking free! So many places we could go…I should take the whole crew to the American West, it's really beautiful out there…and sparsely populated, so the Reapers shouldn't have hit it too hard…c'mon, stay awake man, there is so much more I want to do!..._

Shepard quickly lost track of time, his thoughts bleeding into each other. Thinking was hard, so instead he remembered. He remembered all those little moments when he felt most alive: his childhood on Earth, running packages for the Reds, leaping effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, wishing that one day he might break free of gravity and simply soar up and out into space, and sometimes crashing down into an alley, being cushioned by a pile of trash or the occasional unfortunate hobo; The nervous rush during his Alliance drill instructor's first "pep" talk, the swelling of pride in his chest as he accepted his N7 certification, Captain Anderson nodding his approval from the audience; The incredible wave of relief after the Skyllian Blitz, watching the last pirate ships disappear into the atmosphere and prying his stiff fingers from his half-melted rifle.

And how would he ever forget the transfer to the SR1 Normandy…

* * *

There you have it, the first chapter. Yes, Shepard is alive, he chose the destruction ending, and he will continue to be alive until whenever I end this fanfic. And what were Shepard's orders? Who's alive and who's dead? What state is the galaxy in?

Now, I wasn't too happy with how I moved between real life and thought, but if it works for you guys, I'll stick with it. If not, then if you're planning to critique (which I seriously encourage you to do), see if you can include a few words concerning that aspect of the piece.

I'm going to try and have the next chapter up on or before the 21st, and it will be significantly longer than this one.


	2. Ubi Concordia, Ibi Victoria

Hello again!

I apologize for this entry. I know I promised it would go farther into the story, but I played a bit too much TF2 with my friends over this past week, once I had finished studying for my Ovid test (900+ lines of the Metamorphoses!) Anyway, despite its short length, I hope you enjoy.

In addition, while I do have a few ideas about how the Mass Effect universe is after the Crucible fires, my goal is to make it as positive as possible while at the same time not creating any new information gaps; for instance, the Mass Relays can't be put together again like Humpty-Dumpty, but the Protheans did manage to build a pair of small Mass Relays from scratch (the Conduit). If you have strong feelings about how certain things turn out, and you can give fairly compelling reasons why they should work out that way, I may change my story to match your logic.

* * *

"Ma'am -"

…

"Ma'am, if you could stop for a moment and listen – "

…

"Ma'am, the Krogan –"

…

"The Krogan – "

…

"No, the Krogan do not want to eat you – "

…

"Ma'am, please – "

…

"Ma'am? Ma'am, the Krogan are there to help with the rescue efforts. If – no, let me finish please – if you know someone who has crippling injuries or who is trapped by wreckage, ask the Krogan to help you get them out. If you do not need Krogan assistance, then please make your way to the Pennsylvania State University campus. The Navy – yes, the Alliance Navy – should have food, shelter, and medicine there. Ok?"

…

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

…

"Yes, it's safe."

…

"Yes, we have confirmation. They're gone. Every single one of them."

…

"I know ma'am, it _is_ a miracle. Now, do you remember where you need to go?"

…

"Good, alright. I have to help other people now, but if you need anything else, call this channel again, ok?"

…

"You're very welcome ma'am. Goodbye."

*Beep*

Comms Officer Eric Lacy sighed and leaned back as far as his military-grade seat would allow. A glance at his watch: 32 minutes. 32 minutes since the Crucible fired. 32 minutes since every Reaper, from the lowest Husk to a Harbinger-class dreadnought, had ceased to function.

Earth belonged to humanity again. Victory – against the _Reapers_. Jesus.

At first, no one could believe what they were seeing. Most ships were ordered to keep firing, their captains encouraged by the Reapers' sudden lack of kinetic barriers. The Crucible's emission hadn't done anything to the allied fleet aside from overload a few sensors, so how could it have affected the Reapers? Even a few minutes later, after it had become clear that the Reapers were no longer responding, both fear and the desire for revenge remained. Dozens of the machines were ripped apart by mass accelerator slugs.

The officers on the ground, or what was left of them anyway, were among the first to issue the order to cease fire. On Earth, it was possible to see the Crucible's effects: the Reapers were flopping down like ragdolls, their running lights winking out of existence. When transmissions from the surface, suddenly freed from Reaper jamming, made it up to the allied fleets, their fire eventually began to slacken off as well. The battlefield was quiet for a moment. Then, a wave of euphoria swept across the entire Sol system, carried aloft by the voices of every species.

Lacy hadn't been prepared to celebrate victory against a galaxy-destroying race of starships, and for a little while his self-awareness fled. Around him, the crew of the dreadnought, the SSV McKinley, were both crying and cheering, staring dumbstruck at the video transmissions or pumping their fists into the air. Kisses and hugs were being exchanged all over the place. Some people couldn't contain their elation and started running around the decks, screaming the words on everyone's mind:

"WE WON!"

On his console, video feeds from innumerable ships and ground units opened up, vying for his attention, and he managed to overcome his staggering shock and relief long enough to transfer the feeds to various screens throughout the McKinley. Here, squads of Krogan were clambering atop a fallen Reaper destroyer, brandishing their weapons and yelling out clan names, demanding that pictures be taken "for our mates back home". There, the Turians on the bridge of the Kwunu had abandoned all military rigidity, and as patriotic songs blasted over the intercom, their Volus counterparts soon found themselves being volunteered to crowd-surf. The Elcor were pounding out a sort of drumroll with their massive front limbs. The Asari were reacting much as the humans did, with a few of their number kneeling down and offering prayers to Athame.

Only the Salarians managed to maintain a modicum of professionalism, but every single one of them wore a huge smile as they went about their duties with incredible speed, even for their race.

At some point Lacy noticed an incoming priority transmission from Admiral Hackett, and transferred the feed to all screens. The cheering intensified for a moment at the appearance of his weather-beaten, iconic visage, then slackened off once his serious expression made clear that he wished to speak.

"Well, people – it looks like we've won. With – " Hackett was forced to pause as another exultant roar drowned him out, and even he couldn't hold back a smile, the first smile anyone had seen to reach his eyes. Once the ruckus died down again, he continued.

"With the help of the galactic community, Earth has been retaken. Everyone here has fought long and hard and well, but truly, our victory wouldn't have been possible without the support of our allies: the Asari, the Turians, the Salarians, the Krogan, the Geth and the Quarians, the Hanar and the Drell, the Volus, the Elcor, the Rachni and the Batarians. The Reapers have taken much from us all, but today, we turned the tide. Today, we won a victory not just for humanity, but also for the galaxy."

He paused, and again surprised his audience by taking his service cap off and running his fingers through his military-length hair.

"I really don't know what more I can say. I know I just want to break out a good bottle of scotch…or maybe three bottles" – _Steven Hackett, joking on open comms?_ – "but, we've all got a lot of work to do. We need to catalogue our losses, and provide assistance to the surviving civilians. We need to figure out what we're going to do with all of the disabled Reapers, both the ships and the ground forces. Also, the pieces of the Citadel must be recovered and searched before they fall into Earth's atmosphere. There may still be survivors on the station."

"Now, I know everyone's got a lot of questions, so once these duties have been assigned, I'm going to hold a meeting on board the SSV Orizaba. I would like to meet and congratulate every soldier in person, but for the time being, for practical reasons, I'd like to limit this meeting to representatives and ranking officers." He paused for a moment, eyes drifting away from the camera, before his face hardened again and he regained his focus. "However, there are a few questions I can answer right now. We have received word from the rearguard that the Charon Relay is…no longer functional. There will be specifics in the meeting, but for the time being, communications and travel are limited to the Sol System." Now _that_ got people's attention, but Hackett didn't wait for the ramifications to sink in before switching tracks. "On a more positive note, I was able to personally speak with Commander Shepard just before the Crucible fired. Although Harbinger inflicted heavy casualties upon Task Force Hammer, both Commander Shepard and Admiral Anderson made it aboard the Citadel, and I assume it was them who started the firing sequence. I haven't heard from them since, but chances are they could still be alive in the wreckage."

An assistant on Hackett's side reminded him of something, and the Admiral's mouth twitched before he regained his composure. "Also, the press is welcome to board the Orizaba."

"Hackett, out."

Divvying up duties amongst the myriad races had been surprisingly simple. Any ships too large to land served as information and communication hubs, temporarily replacing the communication arrays which the Reapers had destroyed. Humans, Asari, and Krogan were dispatched to directly assist civilians, the Humans and Asari because their presence was received well by civilians, and the Krogan because they could move rubble and carry the immobilized with ease. The Salarians sent infiltration teams to confirm that the Reapers were actually dead, not hibernating (which Commander Shepard had warned they were able to do), and they put their brightest minds to work figuring out what to do with the Reapers' bodies, and how restart Earth's critical industries, like farming and energy production. The Volus and Hanar volunteered their military transports to start ferrying food, water, and medical supplies from the fleets to relief sites on Earth, while the Turians, hoping to recover their wounded who were on the Citadel when the Reapers moved it, used their relative abundance of dreadnoughts to tow the shattered remains of the station to Luna, where the low gravity and lack of atmosphere allowed them to bring the pieces in for a soft landing. The Quarians volunteered their engineers to repair damaged ships and electronics systems on Earth, and Admiral Daro'Xen personally led a team to the Geth command ship to determine why they were no longer responding to hails. The Batarians weren't sure what help they could offer, given their bloody relationship with Humanity, but after some analysis the Salarians decided that as a balance between research and safety, only Harbinger was needed intact. The rest of the Reaper ships were given to the Batarians, who didn't waste any time satisfying their lust for revenge; the only condition being that they move the mangled corpses out of Earth's orbital path once they were finished with them.

A few months ago, you couldn't have gotten these races into the same system without some war breaking out. Yet here they were, having fought and died for a single planet, the homeworld of a single race, and still working towards a single goal. Galactic peace. A pipe dream by most standards.

Then again, Commander Trent Shepard had a knack for doing the impossible.

Lacy had never met the man in person, but he'd seen the vids, received lectures from his CO's where Shepard was a role model, and shared in the disbelief at his resurrection and alleged Cerberus activities. The arrival of the Reapers had directed the spotlight away from the Commander, yet even during the stressful monotony of guarding the Crucible, the rumor was that Shepard was once again working his magic to bring help: a lot of help. It started off with a motley bunch of engineers, researchers, and various other scientific experts; it didn't matter that some of them, like Kasumi Goto, were supposed to be impossible to recruit or rescue, they kept coming out of the woodwork in a steadily thickening stream. Most thought the Rachni were the icing on the cake, but then entire fleets of warships began to show up, even from those species whose homeworlds were also under Reaper siege, or who had no apparent reason to help. Hackett said that this was a victory for the whole galaxy, by the whole galaxy, but Lacy heard the whispers going around the decks: this was just another miracle courtesy of Commander Shepard.

So where was the man?

The Turians, after successfully moving the Citadel to the Moon, had begun a thorough search of the pieces, being careful not to rupture any sections capable of containing atmosphere. Anytime they opened a door or cut into a section of the station, they lined the opening with kinetic barrier projectors custom-built for these sorts of operations. So far, they had found a few survivors of various races holed up in bank safes or C-SEC stations, and a lot of human bodies, but no sign of the Commander or Admiral Anderson. Seeing the station in pieces helped the rescuers understand just how few of the Citadel's layers had been explored. They had, in classic Turian style, quickly, methodically, and thoroughly covered everything their maps could show them, yet they still had 90% of the station to go.

Lacy let out another sigh. He knew that he was supposed to be answering civilian calls, and the screen in front of him displayed at least two dozen other incoming transmissions, but his rank and console gave him access to the Turian channels; he couldn't help but watch them and hope, and, after time passed, begin to worry. He knew he wasn't being professional, although – he looked over at Specialist Petrov, who responded with a similar expression of anxiety – who could blame him? After all the things Shepard had done for the Alliance over his decade-long career, he deserved a big pension and a carefree retirement, not a funeral. Also, the man was responsible for bringing the races together – would his death threaten the peace?

Whatever conclusions Lacy might have come to were lost as a new alert, on a much higher priority than the civilian calls, sprang up on the console. It wasn't a transmission – in fact, Lacy had never seen this sort of signal before - but whatever it was, it carried military-grade encryption. He leaned forward, getting a better look as he racked his brains, trying to remember the various symbols he had learned about in communications training, and finally it hit him. The slow, steady pulsing; three arrows pointing towards a central point; this was a Marine homing beacon! Such beacons were rarely used anymore because they gave away the position of whichever soldier was using it, but right now, there were a lot of people who needed to be found.

"Hey Mack," Lacy called over to the sensors technician, "Mack, it says on my console that someone popped a Marine homing beacon. I just forwarded you the signal; think you can find out where they are?"

"Sure thing." Mack entered the proper commands and waited. "Matching…triangulating…target mapped. Lacy, it looks like it's coming from the Moon."

"The Moon?"

"Yeah – well, more specifically, a chunk of the Citadel. Wait, d'you think that could be?..."

The signal could have been coming from anyone, but nevertheless, Lacy could feel the excitement rising in his chest. "I don't know man, but we've got to tell the Turians about this! Forward me the coordinates, I'll get on the horn with the nearest rescue team."


End file.
